Mail Bag

Wow, hi Meggles!

I started this email a LONNNNNG time ago and got stuck so it has been sitting in my draft box.

Soooo...I figured I should just send it. I had made it originally for you to answer on days you had writers block, because I love when you just answer people's questions.

Sooo...yeah. There ya go.

Hope all is well! Still reading strong!

<3 jen

Let's do this, Sanchez.

1. Marry Fuck Kill:

Dr. Reuben

Larry Hagman

John McCain

Ooo, GOOD ONE. I've been thinking about this all weekend, and here's my final answer: I'd marry Larry Hagman and we'd live a long, happy life together, thank you; fuck Dr. Reuben because I've always wondered what making love to a Jiffy Bag-covered penis would feel like; and I'd kill John McCain because that son of a bitch never hugged me and/or his daughter is society's longest active queef.

2. When do you actually sleep, Meg?

5-11:00am. Ish.

3. Have you tried wiping standing up yet?

Yes. Everyday for the past 23 years.

4. Would you be upset if Tulane Chris began dating Bobby Flay?

I would feel hurt, betrayed, confused, tickled, aroused, livid, and hurt. In that order.

5. What Would Meg Do?

Oh, God. Meg would take a nap and avoid the situation entirely, then regret it later when it's too late. WWMD? is not a lifestyle I recommend.

6. If your life were a movie, who would play you?

I mean, that's really nice and all, but truthfully, it would probably be a cross between Gabourey Sidibe and Charles Grodin.

7. Have you ever been in a threesome? Do you have plans to be?

I was once an active, and some say uncomfortably competitive, participant in a threeway hookup, but I've never taken it to the next level. (<--- Please know I just re-wrote that sentence so it didn't include the word "penetration".) I don't have any threesomes planned at the moment, but if Hunter's Dean of Admissions and Anthony Bourdain are up for it, I wouldn't say no. (<--- Please know, I just took out an "I'd have no reservations!" joke.) (Or "joke", if you will.)

8. What would you do with $1,000,000?

#1: Buy a membership to Sports Club/LA

#2: Pay off my student loans

#3: Pay back my parents all the money I've borrowed from them over the years

#4: Pay back Chris the $57 I owe him

#5: Pay my bills

#6: PAY COMCAST TO PUBLICLY SUCK MY DICK

#7: Buy Chris and I matching red velor track suits with our initials embroidered on the left breast, so we can wear them: a.) all the time and b.) in a picture where we're standing back-to-back with our arms crossed, glass of whiskey in one hand and mischievous grins on our faces, which will from there on out be used as our official headshot. (This has been an actual goal of ours for almost a year now.)

#8: Buy a new laptop because this one is almost dead and the S, L, F8, and Control buttons are broken. It's exhausting.

#9: Adopt a pug

#10: Buy a couch

#11: Buy an office chair

#12: Bribe the recruiters at my temp agency to actually find me some work

#13: Buy equipment for the podcast Chris and I want to do

#14: Get a tattoo of Homer's bifocals on my ass

#15: Buy a night of hot, passionate lovemaking with Nick Hawk from Showtime's Gigolos (whose rates are surprisingly reasonable, by the way...)

#16: Buy myself a bike, because Lord knows that infuriating situation hasn't been resolved yet

#17: Visit my friends on the west coast and in the middle east

#18: Buy a really, really nice knife set

#19: Buy Evie a...Nope. That cat has literally anything she could ever want and/or need. And I'm jealous of her.

#20: Donate the rest to Howard University, so Becca and I can finally go to Howard homecoming

9. Would you ever go on Fear Factor?

Absolutely not, because if there's anything I hate more than confronting my fears, it's Joe Rogen.

10. Diane invites you over for dinner. When you walk in the house, Jeremy Piven is sitting at the table, helping himself to some potatoes. Describe what happens next.

First, I'd take a moment to pause and let it all just wash over me. Then, like a horny C-level magician, I'd haphazardly yank the table cloth off the table, sending plates, artisan bread, and salad forks flying everywhere. Then, I'd hop up on the table, make the international "suck it" motion across my crotch, rip open my shirt, and crawl towards The Piv while whipping my hair around and eating the odd biscuit, like a hungry hungry Tawny Kitaen. Now in front of Piven, I'd choke him with his own necktie, slap him in the face, slap myself in the face, and lick gravy off his receding hairline until neither of us can take it anymore, and I climb into his lap and make dirty, forceful love to him, right there in front of God, my parents, and everyone.

That's the short answer. The long one involves a few erotic venn diagrams and a lot more swears.

11. Good looking or rich?

Neither; personality. HA HA! Just kidding. Rich. I really want a membership to Sports Club/LA. Do you know how happy access to a lap pool would make me? Also, sometimes I pleasure myself to their group exercise schedule. Like most of my porn, it's sad and extremely effective.

12. Would you rather have invisibility powers or read minds?

Invisibility. That way I could work out at Sports Club/LA without a membership and NO ONE WOULD EVER KNOW!

13. Did Sophie make the right choice?

You mean the choice to whore out herself and her blog for a membership to Sports Club/LA? Yes. Yes, I do. And speaking of whoring myself out (which, again, I would absolutely do), the following is an exchange I had with my mom last night while discussing my current financial situation:

Me: You know what? Fuck it. I'm just going to whore myself out in the streets for top dollar.

Mom, in the most heartfelt tone I have ever heard her speak in: Oh, sweetheart. Nickles and pennies aren't going to help us now.

...You know what? Well played, Diane Rowland. Well played.

Bros & Cons

Today's blog post is a classic case of good news/bad news.

First, some good news: it's everyone's favorite fictional weekly holiday—T.G.I. Hagman!


As of 4:30 on July 30, 2010, Larry Hagman is...alive! And installing a solar panel somewhere, I'm sure. (Lord love him.)

The bad news is that we got a Cease and Desist Order yesterday. From Dr. Reuben, of author of Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex But Were Too Afraid to Ask, fame. Yeah. I know. It's like Christmas has come early. And speaking of Christmas, all I want this year is to make it six months without someone threatening to sue us. Because come on. I don't have anything worth suing over. I think I have a few bags of half-melted Hanukkah gelt and an impressive collection of Ken Paves clip-on hair...? But that's pretty much it. That is the extent of my fortune. And frankly, sir, you are more than welcome to it.

Here's what the Cease and Desist Order said:

CEASE AND DESIST ORDER

Dear madam,

You are using extensive material from a work the copyright of which is owned by Dr. David Reuben, M.D.

The name of the work involved is "Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex." It appears on a site operated by you at: http://www.2birds1blog.com.

Dr. Reuben has reserved all rights to this work, which was first published in 1969 in the United States of America.

Your copying and or use of his work, which appear at the link above, is unauthorized. You neither ask for nor recieved permission the peice nor to make nor distribute copies of them in the manner you have.

Therefore, I believe you have willfully infringed Dr. Reuben's rights under 17 USC 101, et seq. and could be liable for statutory damages as high as $100,000.000 or more, in the United States and any other country where this site is viewed. Further, I believe such copyright infringement is a direct violation of The Digital Millennium Copyright Act and International Copyright Law.

I demand that you immediately cease use and distribution from any material of the work and all copies of it, that you remove any further of Dr. Reuben's works you may have used and that you desist from this or any other infringement of Dr. Reuben's rights in the future.

Furthermore, I demand that you immediately post an apology on the site informing others that who might have been misled by your work.

This Cease and Desist Order applies to all versions of this site which may be available in any form in any language and in any jurisdiction or country whatsoever.

If I have not received proof of your compliance from you within five working days, I shall consider taking the full legal remedies available to rectify this situation.

Your truly,

D. Robert Hatouian

Not to be an asshole, but the most shocking thing about this entire situation isn't that Dr. Reuben sent us a Cease and Desist Order, it's that Dr. Reuben is alive. And alive enough to be offended. Crazy.

I'm tempted to tell the good doctor that he'll get his apology when my cold, dead body coke-douches it out, considering how 99.9% of the Twitter responses I got regarding this situation were along these lines:

TheBrittaTruth

@2birds1blog STFU, really? He should thank you. I bought 2 of his books solely because of you.

But, between me, you and my lipstick case-filled urethra, I have $40 in my checking account, -$9.95 in savings and my lawyer's email address keeps bouncing back. Sooo, on behalf of my tooth-filled vagina, faggy co-writer and colored friends, I hereby decry that 2birds1blog will no longer feature Dr. Reuben's Q&A of the Day, and I, Meghan C. McBlogger, am sorry. Just in general. As a person. All-around. But specifically, we, as a blog and a Nation, are sorry for:

1.) Not understanding Dr. Rebuen's astute analysis of the homosexual mind.

2.) Mocking Dr. Reuben's whimsical attitude towards barrier methods.

3.) Diluting ourselves into believing that prostitutes can have feelings and orgasms.

4.) The disbelief we felt upon discovering that the clitoris falls off after over-use.

5.) The itching, the burning, the peeling, and the foamy discharge.

But mostly, we're sorry we didn't think of writing a book based on penthouse letters and klan literature first. Hats off to you, sir. Hats off to you.

- Sigh. It kind of feels like the end of an era, doesn't it? But not to worry! There's still good news to be had! Because today marks the return of RECRAP FRIDAYS! That's right, tonight was the season premier of the second season of "Jersey Shore" and you bet your Depp hair gel I was all over it. In fact, my "spotters" from last season—Laura and Andrew of the Great Juno Debate—came over to keep me company again, but not before we had a big Italian pot-luck dinner and popped a bottle of champagne at 10 o'clock to ring in the Guido New Year. They even got party favors to take home!

Yep. Those are Ed Hardy lighters I found at a Walgreens in Foggy Bottom. Because nothing's more badass than letting the entire world know you're a douchebag—via FIRE! (And speaking of Walgreens, this is from an article in this week's issue of US Weekly about celebrity mugshots:

How in love am I with Shia Labeouf? Because there, sandwiched between Nicole Richie's 2006 DUI and Matt Dillon's obscene 2008 reckless driving charge, is old Shia with a 2007 booking after he quote, "wouldn't leave a Walgreens." I hope one day I make it into the Celebrity Mugshot Hall of Fame when I refuse to lower my voice because the girl behind the deli counter didn't give me the full quarter-pound of virginia shaved ham I paid for. Because in this kind of economy, I will not be Jewed out of my deli meats, a-thank you very much...

The season 2 premiere of "Jersey Shore" was kind of...lackluster. But I totally get why. It was an establishing episode. It reminded us what happened last season and established this season's plot, so we can all move forward on the same page next week. It was this season's prologue, if you will. The entire episode can pretty much be nutshelled as:

WE KILLED IT IN JERSEY, BRO! -> It's cold as fuck in December on the East Coast -> Weather patters, weather patterns, weather patters, -> LET'S GO TO MIAMI! -> Questionably racist statements about Barack Obama -> Angelina's here?!!?!?!1 -> Ronnie and Sammi: Awkward. -> THE END.

But, for the sake of a good recap, I'll delve a little deeper.

SO! As previously mentioned, they totally killed it in Jersey, bro, so the "Jersey Shore" cast decides they should do it again, but this time in Miami. I get that. Helena, Alex, College Roommate Danielle and I went to Miami for Spring Break senior year, so we certainly know first hand how hard that city can party, AM I RIGHT OR AM I RIGHT, YOU GUYS?! (Lies. We spent the entire vacation either at the beach or in our hotel room watching three back-to-back seasons of "Golden Girls" on DVD while playing a drinking game loosely based on Uno called, "What's Jiggling?" And I can concretely say without a hint of sarcasm or irony: Best. Spring. Break. Ever.)

A lot has changed since we last left America's favorite guidos: Ronnie and Sammi broke up; Angelina and Pauly D had a one-night stand; everyone suddenly uses each other's Christian names instead of their "Jersey Shore nicknames"; and Snooki is finally dating her "perfect gorilla juicehead." Unfortunately for her, not only am I your humble recapper, but 0Ooo00o0o0o0O0O...I'm also the ghost of Nicole "Snooki" Polizzi's future! And in the future, Snooki's boyfriend will admit that he only dated her for run-off fame, dump her and team up with Spencer Pratt to produce a reality show of his own about Christ knows what. Sorry, dude. It happens to the best of us. My ex-boyfriend is currently penning a book called, "I Dated Meg McBlogger and all I Got Was This Lousy Coupon For Jalapeño Poppers: A Spencer Pratt Production." And I wish them both the best of luck.

But not everything has changed: Pauly D and The Situation are still BFF4Lyfe; as are Snooki and J-Woww. Both decide to road trip from Jersey to Miami, boy vs. girls style, and see which pair gets there first. So they lock their £20,000 wagers in a sturdy carpet bag, hop into their respective hot air balloons and by George, it's away they go!

COMMERCIAL BREAK! And man; you know you've made it when your usual Jovan Man Body Heat cologne commercials are replaced by the extended trailer for an upcoming Mark Whalberg/Will Ferrell movie...Welcome to the American Dream.

SURPRISE! Angelina is back this season! For those of you who don't remember Angelina (or Jolie, as absolutely no one calls her,) she was the gal from Season 1 who hauled her clothes around in trash bags and left after, oh, two episodes because she missed her boyfriend and didn't feel like working. So essentially she's That Girl who works two cubicles down from you in your office. Well, apparently Angelina's been talking to Pauly D and The Situation a lot and both mentioned they're going to Miami, so naturally that means they invited her in Angelina's Land of Extreme Ass-Backwardsery. A mystical land where booty shorts are worn with high-heeled sandals; garbage receptacles are luggage; and publicly saying things like, "I'm the Kim Kardashian of Staten Island" isn't mortifying. How does one get there? Second star on the right and straight on til a morning full of deep, deep regrets...

Despite thinking she was invited, everyone (including Pauly D and The Situation) (who, by the way, beat Snooki and J-Woww to Miami, after getting stuck in the mud for an hour and having a circle jerk around Pauly D's AAA Gold Card,) are pretty shocked to see her. The girls choose to deal with this by flat-out ignoring her while Pauly D and The Situation let her bunk with them because who knows—"maybe it'll be a slow night, raining out, got no chicks and who knows what will happen." Ah, yes: Roses are red, violets are blue/ We couldn't find any proper trim, so we settled on you. That's gotta make a girl feel special.

Angelina is in a real fried pickle here, you guys: she's in a house where everyone pretty much openly hates her and she's stuck there for the next three months or so, under contract. Angelina assures The Situation that she'll "do whatever it takes to be cool with these people." Which is funny, because that's exactly what I said the first day of middle school, and we all know two weeks into that I was wearing stirrup pants and spending my Saturday nights brushing my Beanie Baby collection with a mini Barbie comb. Likewise, things don't work out so well for old Angelina. Because apparently her version of "doing whatever it takes to be cool with these people" involves a lot of confrontation and swears. After nearly getting her ass kicked by J-Woww and the 2002 prom dress she rode in on, Angelina decides that she doesn't want to associate with the girls at all. So, you know, good thing she's on a reality show with them.

Now, this is normally where I'd make fun of the Everyone Loves Raymond style plot-line surrounding Ronnie and Sammie's relationship, but their Season 2 drama is actually pretty damn good so far. You see, despite breaking up, Sam is still in love with Ron, but doesn't know where Ron stands. Where does Ron stand? Oh, the same spot where Ben Affleck's character in 1994's "Lifestories: Families in Crisis" A Body to Die For: The Aaron Henry Story stood when he was all juiced up, yelling at his girlfriend, right before he killed her kitten. See, Ron is harboring just a liiiiiittle bit of resentment from the break-up. Just a wee bit. And one night he has a smidge of a break-down, calls Sam a cunt, goes into full-blown Creepy Mode and hooks up with everything in Miami, from the grenades (fat, ugly chicks) to the land-mines (skiny, ugly chicks) to the palm trees (any plant of the Palmae family) while Sam tosses and turns at home, wondering how she's ever going to live with her ex.

FIN!

(God that feels good to do again.) Have a great weekend and we'll see you right back here Monday morning! L8r!

Dr. Reuben on Birth Control

Before we get to this week's session with the good doctor, it's time to play a few quick rounds of America's least necessary game since The Dating Ref—"Am I Crazy, or Are You?"

ROUND 1!
Subject: Cleaning the lint trap in a shared laundry environment.

My stance: It's common knowledge that you clean the lint trap out after you're done with your machine. Why? Because it takes five seconds, not cleaning it is a fire hazard, the lint comes from your clothing, and nobody wants to handle your personal mystery lint, a-thank you very much.

The challenger(s): Everyone in my building who's not me.

Their stance: It's common knowledge that you leave your disgusting mystery lint in the trap for Meg to scrape and fondle the next time she decides to take her Jack Daniel's pants for a tumble dry. Duh.

Which one of us is crazy? YOU DECIDE!


ROUND 2!
Subject: The phrase "for all intents and purposes."

My stance: Truthfully, I spent a solid 24 years thinking the phrase was "for all intensive purposes," until I wrote a blog post using it one day and got 9,000 condescending emails being like, "Ohhhhhhh Meg. You are unreasonably attractive, but just plain stupid. The phrase is 'for all intents and purposes.' Thank god you have a magnetic personality and an ass that just won't quit, or else I would have stopped reading this poorly written shit years ago." (I'm editorializing slightly.)

The challenger: 2b1b reader and Twitter user, @brytesunshine.

Her stance: Per the following tweet:

brytesunshine @2birds1blog I love your blog so much! (btw, the saying is "for all intensive purposes" not "intents and purposes")

Which one of us is crazy? YOU DECIDE! (And thank you for loving the blog, @bryteshunshine. Despite the blaring fact I just called you out for calling me out, it loves you back.)

I look forward today's blog comments. Phew. Man, I'm glad that's settled. I feel like I can rest a little easier tonight knowing that all of this confusion will soon be cleared up. But where's the fun in that?! Let's get some Dr. Reuben in here to make us all horribly uncomfortable and confused about life and our own genitals again, huh??

What's a dildoe?
[...] The Japanese have about a thousand years head start in the dildoe line and have a good product. Traditionally their market prefers carved ivory, but, ivory prices being what they are, artificial ivory or hard white plastic is well-accepted. While Westerners strive for realism, the Orientals hold out for feeling. Japanese dildoes are available in a wide variety of models from smooth, small caliber versions, for virgins just breaking into this form of sexual activity, ranging upward in size and texture. The advanced models have progressively more prominent carving along with larger dimensions to provide stimulation to mature vaginas. Some of these are thick as a man's arm and over a foot long. They probably exist as a conversation pieces; they are more suitable for consoling a lady elephant. [...]
---------------

This Q&A actually comes from the Masturbation chapter and I bring it up for two reasons and two reasons only:

1.) HAHAHAHAHAHA..."Orientals." Dr. Reuben; you would.

2.) I've just now decided that I want to have twins. And I shall name those twins "Stimulation to Mature Vaginas" and "Consoling a Lady Elephant." Good luck to both of them in Middle School.


What is the best method of birth control?
That, like the perfect martini, has not been concocted yet. There are two recent techniques that have some outstanding advantages. The first one is the "Intra-Uterine Contraceptive Device," or IUD (pronounced "yood"). [...]
---------------

Ok...LIGHTING ROUND!
Subject: How to pronounce IUD.

My stance: Eye-you-dee.

The challenger: Dr. David Reuben, M.D.

His stance: Yood.

Which one of us is crazy? YOU DECIDE! (Please know that it took every single fiber of self-respect in my body not to type, "YOOD ECIDE!" just now.)


What is the best method of birth control? (continued)
[...] The IUD has been in use for about 2,500 years. Arab camel drivers in that era were faced with a difficult problem. The voyages of their caravans often lasted two years and involved many intermediate stops where several camels would be dropped off with their loads. The voyages were marred by a quirk of camel psychology--a pregnant camel refuses under any circumstances to leave the caravan. At stops their burdens would have to be shifted to other camels and the whole caravan rearranged. The camel drivers could not eliminate the female camels since they carried heavier loads and had more endurance.

One day, an anonymous Arab genius thought of implanting an apricot pit in the uterus of a camel. This foreign body effectively prevented pregnancy and was the perfect camel contraceptive. From that time on, every female camel (except those used for breeding) was equipped with her personal apricot pit. [...] About fifty years ago a German doctor, von Graff, decided to try the same approach in human beings [with a] coil of silver wire he inserted through the vagina directly into the uterus.
---------------

Alright, let's talk contraceptives for a moment, shall we? Babies: they've got to be stopped. I hear ya. But that being said, I am in NO WAY on board with IUDs. I know that they're super effective and thousands of women have them and everyone swears upside-down-and-sideways that you can't feel it, but no. Just no. No to hookworms and no to IUDs. And I say this for a few reasons:

1.) I don't want the female contraceptive techniques of an Arabic camel herder or a German doctor named von Graff from the 1920's (who I'm not saying was probably a Nazi, but I'm absolutely not not saying was probably a Nazi) anywhere near my genitals or reproductive organs. ANYWHERE. NEAR. 'EM.

2.) The thought of having an IUD inserted into my cervix seriously makes me gag. Therefore, the thought of having an apricot pit haphazardly shoved up my cervix by a camel herder makes me want to peel all of my skin off with a moderately sized carrot peeler.

3.) I can not find it now for the life of me, but when I referenced how you supposedly can't feel an IUD in the hookworm post, a reader emailed me and said that when she had an IUD, her boyfriend could feel the strings hanging out when they had sex. MODERATELY. SIZED. CARROT. PEELER!



Does the IUD work well?
It's only fair. The rate of protection is about ninety percent. That is compensated for by the convenience--no chemicals, no condoms, no diaphragm, no nothing. However for those who might be inconvenienced by pregnancy, the IUD has its limitations. There are stories of babies being born clutching the plastic coil in their little hands.
---------------

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA....Sick.


Are nuns allowed to take birth control pills?
Only under certain unusual circumstances. In the early 1960s when the Belgian Congo was given its independence, things got a little ugly. Bands of terrorists swarmed over the country killing, looting, and raping. It was the raping part that particularly disturbed the Catholic Church. Many hundreds of nuns manned Catholic missions there and they were the rapists' primary targets. Several hundred half-breed children fathered by black terrorists born to white nuns was an appalling possibility. The Church ordered a special dispensation and birth control pills were distributed to the nuns. they took them obediently.
---------------

First of all, nobody was wondering that, Dr. Reuben. Someone just got a little excited about a fun fact they learned on the History Chanel last night and wanted to put it in their book to make them seem worldly and knowledgeable. It's like if I wrote a Q&A book about life post-college and included:

Is Christmas Island a real place?
Why yes, dear reader, it is. Christmas Island is a territory of Australia located in the Indian Ocean. It has a population of 1,403 residents, 63% of it is a national Australian park and it was first discovered by Captain William Mynors when he sailed past it on a British East India vessel on Christmas Day, 1634, thus giving it it's joly name.

Did anyone ask? No. Does it make me feel slightly better about all of the Wikipedia work I've been doing recently? Yes.

Also, is what we're expected to take from Dr. Reuben's delightful little history lesson here that the Catholic Church wasn't so much worried about the fact that nuns were getting raped, but more so that they were producing interracial babies? And am I also correct in picking up that their solution to the problem wasn't to remove the nuns from the area all together, but rather to send someone down there to put their ho asses on the pill? And did I once have a professor in college who said that black men and white women make "plaid" babies? (I'll answer that one for you: yes. Professor Zuber; god bless your heart.) Because if so: yowzahs. If I were a nun stuck in the Congo surrounded by a bunch of terrorists who's daily goal was to rape the wimple off me and some random guy showed up to give me a few complimentary packs of Yaz and bounce...I think I might ask if I could go with him. Maybe just hitch a ride to the next country over. Nothing too fancy. But then again, I'm not a Woman of God. Perhaps I never heard the calling for a reason: I'm a quitter.

Ahhh the Catholic Church: turning a blind eye to the Holocaust, child molestation and nun rapings for the last two thousand years...

Closing a can of worms...

Alright, Miss Helena. You wanted the 2b1b communities' opinion? WELP! You certainly got it, didn't you, blue eyes?! As of 2:30am on April 15th, the total worm tally is as follows: 118 votes for Team Meg and 30 votes for Team "Hookworm Helena," as they're calling you now. Mr. Rogers, Ira Glass and "sorr about the bag" each got a few votes as well, but I'm not counting them for our purposes. God bless all three though.

Out of all 30 meager votes for Helena, none surprised me more than Alex's. I actually woke up Tuesday morning (it was obviously Tuesday afternoon, I don't why I'm putting on airs here) to the sound of the voicemail alert on my phone and saw that Alex had called twice and left a voicemail asking to call him back immediately. Everytime Alex calls from work and asks me to call him back in a rushed voice, I have a small heart attack and think someone we know has died. I think it's because I know that Alex is legitimately busy all day at a demanding job, so it makes me nervous to see that he's taking time out of it to call me when he can just as easily text, email or gchat. So I always call back expecting to hear that Andrew's been hit by a bus or something equally traumatizing and instead he just wants to know what the lyrics mean in the High School Musical song "Get Your Head in the Game" when Zac Effron says, "Don't be afraid to shoot the outside J." True story...

And I'll never learn my lesson. My heart was seriously pounding as I called him back Tuesday morning afternoon and he casually picked up the phone all, "Hi! What's up?"

"UH, YOU'VE BEEN ASKING ME TO CALL YOU BACK ALL MORNING! WHAT'S GOING ON?!

"Oh! Yeah! I just thought I should let you know—you're wrong," Alex said.

"Wrong about what?"

"The hookworm thing. You're wrong." he said, in an obnoxiously matter-of-fact tone.

"I'm not wrong."

"No, you really are. Helena's right. If I could end all of this by swallowing a few worms, I'd do it in a heart beat."

"WHAT? WHAT DO YOU MEAN, 'ALL OF THIS'?! WE'RE NOT TALKING ABOUT GENOCIDE IN DARFUR, ALEX, WE'RE TALKING ABOUT ALLERGIES!"

"Yeah. Well. You're still wrong and I thought I should let you know. Ooo, someone just walked in, gotta go!" Click.

It was like my entire world caved in upon itself. Something that I was so sure of was being refuted by both Helena and Alex. Two of the people I respect most in this crazy, mixed up world. I felt alone and I felt confused. I sat there in my bed hugging my knees and gently rocking back and forth as the morning sunlight early evening twilight streamed through the windows.

Then I went out to dinner with Becca and her fiance—both of whom are extreme allergy sufferers and can't even look at Evie without their throats closing up (a curse I can't even begin to fathom)—who both adamantly agreed that I'm right and Alex and Helena are crazy wrong. I felt considerably better, but still slightly shook up.

Thus, I was extremely comforted by the results of Tuesday's tally and am glad that the greater 2b1b community agrees that I'm right and Helena can suck the proverbial it. Lord love her.

I would, however, like to address the following comment:

- From Amanda,


Fair enough, Amanda. Fair enough. Here you are—my amended rebuttal:

No.

No.

No.

No.

No.

No.


Check and mate, dear reader. Check and mate.

Also, a few friends and readers on the comment board brought up that if hookworms make you lose weight in addition to getting rid of allergies, then they'd totally consider doing it. Some were even a little surprised I hadn't thought of that. UM, SERIOUSLY? OK, look, I'm not trying to front—let's not pretend like I haven't contemplated swallowing a Livestrong bracelet or two in my life to give myself a DIY gastric lap-band surgery. I'd like to drop a few pounds before my sister's wedding and Lord knows I love the easy way out. That being said, I WOULD NEVER SWALLOW WORMS! I'm curvy, not k-k-crazy, thank you. Christ.

Finally, one of Alex's main arguments when we talked later on gchat was that the hookworms are so small you can't feel them, so who cares? Well, sir, I'd like to direct you to the following video Dave sent me today. (AND WHEN YOU WATCH THIS AND INEVITABLY FEEL THE NEED TO PLUCK YOUR EYEBALLS OUT OF YOUR HEAD AND RUN 'EM THROUGH THE DISHWASHER SEVERAL TIMES, DON'T COME CRYING TO ME. IT'S ALLLLLL DAVE'S FAULT. YOU'VE BEEN WARNED.)


I don't give a shit if I can't feel it; just knowing that's going on inside me is enough to make me want to slice open my stomach with a moderately sharp object and remove my intestines completely. And I know everyone's going to say, "Oh but Meg, you're so simple and country! You naturally have all sorts of parasites and worms living inside of you right now!" And that is fine and dandy. God put those worms there and there they shall stay and I'll never think about them again. But having to go throughout life knowing that I elected to put extra worms in my stomach brings way more attention to their existence than I ever needed and I can totally foresee it consuming my thoughts until I live a Howard Hughes-like existence where I never leave the house, have creepily long finger nails and fear "The Bacteria."

So you guys can handle it? Good on ya. I'm not strong enough. I'm sorry, it's my cross to bear—I don't want hookworms. I'm a weirdo, I know.

Sigh.

Well, this feels like a rather aggressive note to end the blog on. Sorry Helena. Sorry Alex. I'll raise you a video clip and one Q&A with Doctor Reuben to cleanse the pallet, how's that?

First, kudos to Ex-Co Blogger Eddie for finding an entire page of Clone High themed thongs on Cafe Press! She also found a band from Canada called "Captain Lavender" on MySpace. Captain Lavender: a band name based on a Clone High reference so obscure, I'd have sex with each and every member. Twice.

I can't decide which thong I want the most. I'm pretty sure it's the ...WESLEY one. I don't even know what I'd do if I was hooking up with someone and discovered they were wearing Clone High underwear. Probably eff them all the way to town hall and promise to be the Joan of Arc to their Abe Lincoln 'til death do us part. I guess. And if I owned said Clone High themed underwear? Well, I'd probably just sit at home and masturbate all day. So there's that.


And just for shits and gigs, here's a super quick Doc Reuben Q&A I came across today:

But how long should a penis be?
According to the story, someone once asked Abraham Lincoln how long a man's legs should be. After a moment of contemplation, Mr. Lincoln replied, "I would say, just about long enough to reach from his body to the ground." From a realistic point of view, the normal size for a penis is long enough to reach from a man's body into the vagina. As long as the sperm can be delivered without spilling, reproduction is facilitated. Since penile size is a hereditary characteristic, transmitted genetically, any man whose penis is too short to reach the vagina will have difficultly reproducing; truly a short-penised race would have died out half a million years ago.

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I am in no way kidding when I say that the first time I read this, I, for the hottest of hot seconds, completely thought this is where it was going:

How long should a penis be?
According to the story, someone once asked Abraham Lincoln how long a man's legs should be. After a moment of contemplation, Mr. Lincoln replied, "I would say, just about long enough to fuck a woman." And the same principle applies to the penis.

Abe Lincoln was this close to replacing Franklin Peirce as my favorite U.S. President. This close.